


My Brother the Whore

by SeeEmRunning



Series: Heartbreak [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean POV, Preseries, Prostitute Sam, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeEmRunning/pseuds/SeeEmRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's not stupid. He just needs some time to put the pieces together. (Dean's side of Cold Streets, Warm Sheets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brother the Whore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [legion11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legion11/gifts), [ephemerall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemerall/gifts).



> Written for legion11 and ephemerall, who asked if I was planning to write more of CSWS. I wasn't originally, but, well, I'm easily suckered into writing. :P Enjoy!

Dean couldn't believe Sam was talking about taking a cock up his ass so calmly. It was like he didn't even care.

"Just...just give us a day," he said weakly. Sam would see how foolish he was being, right? If he had some time to think about it? And that would give them time to come up with something else.

Sam nodded.

Every time Dean tried to bring up how stupid he was being, Sam shut him down. He resorted to yelling to try to get a response, but even then, Sam barely raised his voice. Dean found himself desperate for an explanation as the Impala, his baby, his _home_ glided toward Austin's version of a red light district.

Maybe it was a test. Maybe Sam was stretching to see how far his independence ran. In a completely stupid, reckless way, sure, but he was sixteen. Stupid and reckless were the definition of sixteen-year-olds.

"I don't like this," he said again.

"Don't think anybody does," Sam answered, and Dean pounced on the waver in Sam's voice, so small he doubted his little brother knew it was there.

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because it's better than letting people die!" Sam snapped at him.

Dad cut them off with a warning, "Boys," before glancing back at Sam. "We're here. Be careful."

Sam nodded once and left. Dean once more contemplated how his Sam had turned into someone willing to prostitute himself.

Maybe Sam didn't know how bad it would be. Had Sam ever been for a roll in the hay with anyone? Had he ever even kissed anybody? Dean didn't care whether Sam liked guys or girls - he had found himself with a guy or two, and he enjoyed those encounters as much as he enjoyed the nights with girls - but Sam didn't seem liked he cared about sex at all. Dean hadn't even overheard a wet dream from his little brother's bed, though whether Sam was taking care of things normally or out chasing tail and just being careful his brother didn't find out -

Yeah, that seemed likely. Sam had probably already screwed and been screwed a couple times. Dean still couldn’t envision his Sammy having sex with strangers, but as was becoming painfully obvious, there was a side to Sam he hadn't even thought was there.

Christ, how could he have missed this part of his little brother, sixteen and walking the streets for a job he hated and couldn’t wait to get out of just because his father told him to? Sam wasn't the obedient one in the family, but Dean doubted he'd be able to have sex on command for a job. He knew he wouldn't have managed it at sixteen.

His musings were interrupted when the back door opened and a hand bearing money appeared. Dean swallowed convulsively and looked out the windshield, blinking back tears, trying not to think of what Sam had had to do. He tuned out the conversation his brother and father were having, hyperaware of every syllable despite his refusal to put them into coherent phrases.

When Sam had gone again, Dad looked at him. "Why are you taking this so hard?"

"Why aren't you?" Dean snapped back. "Sir."

"Sam wanted to do this," Dad reminded him. "He's old enough to make his decisions."

"Not about this."

"He's not old enough to choose for himself about sex?" Dad asked mildly.

"That's not what this is." 

"Then what is it?"

"It's _whoring!_ "

"It's the job. Suck it up, Dean, unless you have a better idea?"

How could he think Dean could 'suck up' the idea that Sam was selling his body for money? And not see the problem with it?

He got a sudden flash of insight as to why Sam was always arguing, if this was how he felt all the time, like his thoughts and feelings didn't matter. He'd seen his dad shut down Sam before, of course, but he'd never been shut down himself about...well, anything, really. He did what his dad wanted him to do, and he raised objections so rarely Dad listened. But now? His objections were tossed aside like they were nothing, like he wasn't worth any regard at all. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and he felt guilt gnawing at his gut for silently supporting Dad every time he'd done this to Sam.

Fuck. Was that why Sam was doing this? Because their constant refusal to listen had made him feel like he was nothing? Dean furiously thought back to the last time either of them had praised him, or even thanked him. He couldn't remember anything more recent than four months back, when Dad had asked Sam to find some odd jobs for medical supplies and he'd come back hours later with two hundred cash-

Where had he gotten two hundred dollars, in cash, after dark?

A slow roll of nausea filled his gut as his mind helpfully supplied what he wanted to refuse: This wasn't Sam's first time hooking.

Fuck. Shit fuck damn. When was the first time money started appearing in his brother's hands? The time in Dayton they got back four days late and hadn't remembered rent was due until two weeks after they left? Cincinnati, when they were five days late and there was no way Sam could have stretched the money they'd left him enough to eat for that long? Aberdeen, when they'd been three days late and he'd been in that motel with a manager that gave even Dad the creeps?

Sam opening the door again pulled him from his thoughts, and Dean was surprised to see the sun already rising. Dad kept up a steady stream of noise, nothing too heavy, and Dean almost snapped at him before he realized it was all that was keeping Sam from passing out on the backseat.

When Sam stumbled into the room and blearily asked for first shower, neither of them argued.  
***  
Sam and Dad were still asleep when Dean woke up the next morning, so he scribbled a note and went for donuts and coffee. By the time he got back, his father was sitting at the table scratching in his journal. Dean set down the three cups and bag - having big hands was a plus when you were carrying such awkward things - and sat down across from him.

"I can't believe we did that," he said quietly five minutes later, when he'd eaten his donut and his coffee was half-gone. "We shouldn't have done that."

"His body, his choice," Dad reminded him.

"We shouldn't have let him do it, Dad."

"I know. But he had a point."

"He didn't know what he was getting into. God only knows what last night did to him," Dean argued. _And all the nights before that._

"He wants to go again tonight."

"No. I won't let him." It was one thing to ask Sam to do it once. It was another to let him go a second time, knowing what he knew now.

"He's old enough to make his own decisions. You can't protect him forever."

"And you can't let him do this again! What if he gets seriously hurt doing this?"

"Then we'll deal with it. He came up with a good cover, and we'll use it if we have to."

"What if he gets killed? Some psycho picks him up?"

"Sam can defend himself. He can almost take you, and he could probably take me if we went at it."

"I know, Dad, but he's just a kid." Dean was pleading now. Couldn't Dad see how dangerous this was?

"He's sixteen. This comes down to him, Dean. If he doesn't want to go again tonight, that's fine. We'll find some other way. God knows I won't push him into this. Knowing what he probably had to do last night...I don't know how he managed it."

Sam suddenly piped up from behind Dean. "Because I couldn't let people die."

"Sam?" his father asked. "How long have you been up?"

"Since you started talking about how you two shouldn't have let me go out last night." Sam swung his feet over the side of the bed. "By the way, we're going again tonight."

"Sam, you don't have to do this," his father reminded him. Dean found himself praying Sam would take the out.

Being Sam, he didn't. "I know you won't make me. I know you'd rather I didn't. But we need to catch it."

"Are you sure you're up to it? You went in blind last night, and now that you know…"

"I'm okay," Sam said gently. "It needs to be done, and you're both too old." He smirked.

"Is this a joke to you?" Dean snapped, abruptly furious.

Sam blinked. "No?"

"Then stop acting like it is," he snarled, stalking to the door and slamming it behind him on his way out. Sam! The nerve of that kid! Acting like this was nothing. Like _he_ was nothing. Like this was just another job.

 _Isn't deciding how to deal with this his prerogative?_ asked a sly voice in his brain. He quashed it ruthlessly. Sam wasn't even legal yet.

 _And how old were you when you lost your virginity? Fourteen, fifteen?_ asked that same small voice.

But that was different! He'd lost it to a girl his age, it had been a mutual losing, and he hadn't gotten paid for it.

Was it money that made the difference? Would he be acting this way if Sam was going to bars and clubs and picking up women and men? Well, maybe he'd be reacting worse if it were adult men he was picking up; he knew how gay sex worked and if the top didn't respect the bottom at all things could get very bad very quickly, especially for a bottom Sam's size. But wasn't that a risk with women, too? Strap-ons and restraints?

Shit, was Sam into kink?

Dean groaned and ground his hands into his eyes, dropping onto a conveniently-placed bench. These weren't thoughts he wanted to be having about his small, vulnerable, naïve, underaged twink of a brother. But now that he knew Sam had spent the last night renting out his body, they crashed into his mind without pause. Had he sucked a dick? Taken it up the ass? How badly was he hurt? Did he remember to insist on condoms? If it wasn't his first night, and Dean had the nasty feeling it wasn't, was he always careful? Had he ever been tested? Had anyone ever been too rough with him, forced him into things he didn't want to do? Did he have people to look out for him on the streets, anyone who would remember him?

What if that was why he so rarely wanted to move? Because he knew where the good customers were and where the cops hung out? Because there were people he met who would keep an eye out for him? He had seen enough reactions to Sam to know looking out for him was almost instinctual for adults, especially women; did the people he saw at night keep watch for things that might hurt him? Or at least see which car he got into, so if things went bad they could tell the cops?

He forced himself to take one deep breath, then two. _Calm down,_ he told himself. _So your brother's a whore because you couldn't provide for him._

Maybe he was a whore because he liked it? There were easier ways to make money. Fuck, maybe Sam was more a slut than a whore. Slutty Sammy.

But no. He couldn't make himself think about his brother like that. Sam wasn't doing this because he liked it; the look on his face when he'd come back to the car that morning made _that_ , at least, perfectly clear.

He stood and started the walk back to the motel. If he had any hope of convincing Sam to not go out again, he had to find out what was behind the deaths.

"Hey," he mumbled when he walked in the room, belatedly registering Sam's hand on their father's arm.

"Hey," Sam answered. Dean couldn't look at him, thoughts still chaotic, so he pulled out a knife and whetstone instead, barely hearing Sam leave the room.

Dad waited until the shower was on to scowl at him. "What's wrong with you, Dean?"

"What's wrong with _me?_ " Dean demanded, taken aback. "Your youngest son is whoring himself out with your approval, that's what's wrong with me."

"It’s the only way," Dad told him.

"You keep saying that!"

"Because it's true."

"No, it's not! We have to keep him safe, and we can't do that with this plan."

"Your brother can take care of himself," Dad reminded him. Dean actually bit his tongue to keep from interrupting. "He's a good fighter, and he told he refused anyone with drugs or a weapon in the car."

"Well, that's good, at least." Dean couldn't entirely keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Dad's eyes sharpened. "Watch your tone, Dean. What your brother does with his body is his business."

Dean's temper snapped. "Usually I'd be right there with you, but I can't believe he's doing this! I mean, what, one night getting screwed by dudes wasn’t enough? He has to have two of them? Degrading himself like that, after everything we've done for him - how can he do that? How much of a freak can he be?" He almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth, fueled as they were by hurt and betrayal.

"Dean! Don't you ever call your brother a freak."

"I didn't mean -"

"I know you didn't. But you've got to learn to control your temper." _Like you control yours when you're drunk?_ Dean thought snidely. "And you have to get this overprotectiveness under control."

"Overprotective?" That stung. "You think I'm being overprotective when I don't want my baby brother working a corner like a cheap whore?"

"You're being overprotective by not respecting your brother's choices." There wasn't much Dean could say to that, not without revealing what he'd worked out about Sam, anyway. "Here's a twenty. Take a walk, get us some lunch, and cool down."

Dean glared at him for a moment before grabbing the money, mumbling, "Yes, sir," and walking out. His only satisfaction was in slamming the door behind him.  
***  
The next day, looking at Sam in the hospital, it was all he could do not to break down in tears. Sammy shouldn't have a cracked skull because he'd been too stupid to find another way. He put a hand on Sam's arm, mirroring his father's pose almost exactly. Hours later, he drifted off to sleep.

He was awoken by Sam asking when he could leave.

"How are you feeling?" Dad asked. Dean noticed that while Dad was still touching Sam, his own hand had moved sometime in the - he checked the clock - three hours he'd been asleep.

"I'm fine. Doc, when can I leave?"

"I'd like to keep you here for at least a few more hours to be sure the break didn't cause any problems, but if all goes well, you can leave after that."

"Thanks," Sam said.

"The police want to talk to you," the doctor said. "Are you up to it?"

"Can we have a couple minutes?" his dad asked.

"Sure," the doctor answered, and walked back out.

"I'm proud of you," Dad told Sam. Dean stamped down a surge of frustration; the two of them should have come up with a plan that didn't involve Sam on the streets.

"Thanks, Dad."

"What were they?" Dean asked, finding curiosity under the anger. "Succubi, witches?"

"Neither," Sam answered with a grimace. "They were stupid humans who thought they could become witches if they summoned Satan. The signs they had painted were all kinds of messed up - summoning signs next to banishing ones, protection next to death - it's a wonder they didn't get themselves killed painting them."

"Humans who wanted to become witches," his father said, shaking his head.

"People are weird," Dean grumbled.

"Okay. So. Cover story," Sam said. "Any ideas as to why I was in the house?"

"You couldn't sleep so you went for a walk," his father said instantly. Clearly he'd thought about it without consulting Dean. He pushed down the hurt it caused to not be consulted. "You slipped out without waking either of us. You were walking down the street when some crazy woman pulled up next to you. She thought you were a prostitute, and being sixteen, you figured you'd take her up on the offer, even if you turned down the money. From there on, tell the truth."

"Right," Sam said. "A crazy woman convinced a bunch of teenagers that they could summon Satan and become witches."

"Teenagers?" Dean said sharply. He hadn't expected that.

"You - uh - hadn't heard that?" Sam asked. "Youngest looked about twelve, oldest around seventeen, and then Samantha was in her forties."

"They pulled a twelve-year-old into this?" His father was horrified, but Sam was spared from having to answer by a knock on the door. Two men in police uniforms walked through. Dean listened to how the night went and almost punched the dick who implied his brother was at fault.

If he looked at Sam he would break down into sobs, so he followed the officers' example and left the room, not quite slamming the door behind him. He found the Impala and leaned against the car, rubbing his eyes to clear his head.

When Sam and Dad came out hours later, he was still there, still fighting tears, and he got in the car without looking at the brother he'd molded into a prostitute.


End file.
